


Kids are Funny Like That

by orphan_account



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alcohol, Aphrodisiacs, M/M, don't look at me, kinkmeme fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 19:53:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1197390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just for the record, this is not how I imagined making my debut.<br/>The kinkmeme prompt is:</p>
<p>during the 104th trainees squad graduation party, some of the military police decide to crash to haze some of the new recruits and marco ends up with an aphrodisiac in his drink. drugged and disorientated, he's later found by jean who he forcefully kisses and presses against the nearest wall. marco's desperate & rough while jean tries to talk him down and push him away. eventually jean quietly gives in and lets marco fuck him, not wanting to hurt marco or get either of them in trouble for breaking curfew. the next day marco is hung over and barely remembers anything so jean decides not to mention anything, but Marco slowly starts to remember bits & pieces of that night and confronts him.</p>
<p>bonuses<br/>- one or both of them are crushing on the other but have yet to actually do anything about it<br/>- jean begging marco to slow down/wait/etc and tries to bribe him with eventual sex as long as it means they're no longer out in public (writer's choice if they make it somewhere private or not)<br/>- because of the aphrodisiac marco is able to go more than one round and comes every time. jean doesn't</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kids are Funny Like That

**Author's Note:**

> Setting note: I decided to give the trainees a few days between the conclusion of training and branch election. Their instructions/the system designated the time for them to talk to each other (and maybe some people in each branch) to decide where they want to go in order to minimize the number of transfer requests.  
> Too bad they mostly use the time to get wasted and sleep.

Marco is sitting on a plain wooden bench in the mess, a smile on his lips and a mug in his hands, when he feels a familiar arm clap about his shoulders. He looks up to see Jean, as he knew he would. His friend is wearing his familiar cocksure grin as he drops gracelessly beside Marco, somehow avoiding slopping his drink on either his uniform or the table.

“Hey, Marco, what are you doing hanging out with these losers?”

Marco smiles back. For Jean, that was almost a cordial greeting, and the pleasant warmth that the ale had started in his stomach was spreading under his skin. “Come on, Jean, they’re our classmates. This is the last time we’ll all get to be together as trainees like this - try to enjoy yourself? After all, less than two days from now, we’ll be splitting up. We might not ever see each other again.”

Jean snorted into his drink, cracked it back down on the table, and looked up, still grinning. “That’s right. End of this weekend, we’re off to the inner walls and the best humanity has to offer. These bozos can do whatever they want. I won’t be sorry to say goodbye to most of them.”

Marco’s fond smile didn’t waver through Jean’s short speech. For all he pretended not to care about their classmates, Marco was inclined to take his abrasive words as affection from someone who just didn’t want to acknowledge it. Bertholdt and Reiner insisted he was barking up the wrong tree with Jean, but he was certain the boy’s pride and prickles hid something great, something that made him exceptional. Marco saw it in the way he worked to remedy his shortcomings in hand to hand combat (so that he could beat up on Eren, but that was beside the point), the way he took initiative in their exercises (to boost his own score, nonetheless making the right calls) and even in his relationship (or lack thereof) with Mikasa. She had never shown the slightest interest in returning his affection, but he continued to work hard to earn her attention, and continued to watch out for her - not that she needed it. When Marco looked at Jean, he saw potential, and he was convinced one day he would grow into himself. In the meantime, he was content to wait it out, and listen to Jean’s proud and cynical speeches, and hear the beginnings of a leader.

“Yo, Marco? Anyone home?”

Marco blinked and felt his smile widen. “Sorry, Jean. Just thinking. What were you saying?”

Jean looked mildly affronted, but shook it off. “I was just saying, we should go outside.”

Marco felt his thought process stutter to a halt at the implications of this statement, followed shortly by his brain as Jean leaned in until he was close enough to kiss Marco’s ear. Marco could practically feel his breath when he parted his lips and whispered, “Some guys from the MP are gate crashing out the back. They’ve got some really good stuff, brewed all the way up in Sina.”  
Marco took a second to glance back at the rest of the table. Hannah was tucked in under Franz’s arm, both of them positively glowing. Mina was laughing at Annie, and Marco could swear he saw the ghost of a smile on Annie’s face before she lifted her mug to conceal it; Samuel was gazing off into the distance, completely ignoring the girls on either side of him attempting to initiate a conversation. Near the end of the table, Eren was delivering an impassioned speech to Thomas, Mikasa at his right hand, looking concerned - perhaps at the blush rising in his cheeks or his steadily decreasing articulacy. “I don’t know, Jean, we could -”

Before he could finish his sentence, Jean had jumped to his feet and grabbed him under the armpits. “Oh, no. You’re about to start making sense. Live a little, man, no one’s getting in trouble for anything that happens tonight. Look around: our superiors have obviously given up on tonight. As long as no one dies, it’ll be fine.”

Marco knows he wants to argue, but between the alcohol and Jean’s hands on his chest, he can’t seem to put together a clear sentence, so he allows himself to be dragged, blushing, off the bench and out the back door.

Outside, Steve Knott and Carl Hapsburg are leaning agains the cart they’d brought all the way to the trainee headquarters from their station in Trost for the 104th trainees graduation ceremony. Sure, they probably had better things to do on a weekend night than watch some dumb teenagers stumble around drunk, but it was a boring town. Besides, these kids are proving surprisingly entertaining. Shortly after they’d arrived, a trio of fresh grads had walked by. Carl had dubbed them Ponytail, Baldie, and Undercut. They’d been so easy to lure over. At first, Baldie had tried to convince his friends to go inside and rejoin the group, but then Undercut had caught sight of the unicorns on their jackets and strode over with a walk that oozed attempted cool. Ponytail had followed him over, then finally Baldie, and after a short conversation mainly consisting of verbal back claps for graduating in the top ten of their class and Undercut confidently informing them he would one day be their boss, they’d happily taken a quick celebratory drink. Other trainees, on their ways to or from latrines or stepping outside for a quicky or just a breath of fresh air, had seen the groups and come over to investigate. Now, Steve and Carl were surrounded by a group of laughing, slurring teens, getting ever more bold as their stores shrank.

As they stood watching the chaos, Steve said, “You think undercut squealed? He was still pretty sober when he went back inside...”

“Who, Jean?” It was Ponytail, her motions wild and her voice loud. “He just went inside to get Marco. He’ll be back.” She leaned in close to Steve, her eyes bright, and said in what she seemed to think was a whisper, “Marco’s his boyfriend. Well, not really, but he should be. I mean, the whole class knows they’ve been crushing on each other since forever, they’re just both too dumb to say anything. Silly boys.” She pulled back with a wide smile and a good natured head shake, then laughed out loud as Baldie grabbed her arm and pulled her into the crowd.

“Boyfriend, huh?” Steve looked over to see a crooked smile he knew all too well: it was the same smile Carl had worn when he had suggested this whole endeavor. “Maybe we should, uh, help them along.”

As he spoke, Steve saw two forms silhouetted for a moment in the light from the hall, one of them sporting a messy undercut. “Yeah, you’re right. A little helping hand.” He turned around and pulled down two of the cheap wooden cups they had stolen from the MPs mess, and filled them from the bottles in the cart. The vine was much, much stronger than that being served inside the mess, meant for adults, not teenagers. He reached for a red blown-glass bottle set off to the side and wrenched off the cork. A considerable amount of the stuff had already gone out, to who, they couldn’t really remember - past a certain point, all these brats started to look the same.

As he glugged a healthy dose into one cup, Carl spoke. “Just the one.” Steve looked up; Carl was still smiling. “And let me hand them off.” Steve shrugged and handed his friend the cups, adding as he did, “This is one’s dosed. The fuller one.”

Carl nodded and directed his smile towards the two boys, who had just reached them. “Nice to see you came back, Jean. Drink up.”

Steve watched, mildly curious as to whom Carl was giving the spiked drink. He had a sneaking suspicion it was Freckles; Carl was a quietly competent man, and he had ways of getting back at people he didn’t care for. Undercut wasn’t really one of those people, but his brashness and arrogance reminded even the relatively forgiving Steve of every bastard that had ever needed taking down a peg. If he was right, Carl was going to hit him right where it hurt, and he’d never even know who it really was.

As Steve watched, Undercut knocked back his entire glass, then cracked it down on the gate and turned to urge his friend to do the same. When both glasses were empty, he turned to them, grinning in a way that made his whole face look brutal, and asked if they gave refills.

Carl spoke quickly. “Sorry, boys, don’t want to run out too early. Besides, that should be more than enough to last you the next couple hours.”

Undercut shrugged. “C’mon, Marco, let’s go. I see Sasha and Connie over there.”

They moved off, Freckles following Undercut with an indulgent smile. Carl’s grin widened, and he said to Steve, “Don’t want to kill the performance. Man, those boy’ve got it bad.”

Steve couldn’t help smiling back.

Across the crowd, Jean was laughing with Sasha and Connie, but Marco couldn’t think about what exactly. In fact, he couldn’t seem to think about anything, exactly. He wasn’t sure how long they’d been talking, but it must have been a while, because he felt completely different than he had when he first came out. He felt...

“Marco? Are you okay?”

He looked up sluggishly. Jean was looking at him, concern etched across his face. “You haven’t said anything in a while. Are you feeling alright?”

So concerned. Such a sweet guy. Marco gave what he knew must be a stupid smile, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “I’m okay, Jean, just a little... woozy.”

“Nah, man, you don’t look so good. You sure you don’t wanna go lay down?”

On second thought, laying down sounded good. Laying down with Jean sounded really good. “Actually... yeah. Yeah, I think I’d like to lay down.”

Jean nodded. “I’ll walk you back to the bunks.” He turned to tell Sasha and Connie they were leaving, only to see Sasha with her arms wrapped around Connie’s neck, giggling as she drew him closer. Jean made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat and turned back to Marco. “Never mind. Let’s go, Marco.”

And with that, Jean grabbed Marco’s arm and drew him away from the crowd, towards the dark path back to the barracks. If Carl and Steve were laughing as they left, he was sure it was just at something dumb Daz had said. If they were watching them go... he was sure it was just his imagination.

The way back was pretty quiet. Jean heard shuffling in the darkness, and giggling, and the occasional wet smacking noises, and shook his head at the foolishness. It was easy enough to guess what was happening in the dark: hormones, alcohol, three years of sexual tension, and a dark little lover’s lane... but that didn’t mean he approved. It wasn’t that he felt he was morally above it, it was more that it was just so _stupid_ doing it out here in the open. Anyone could catch them.

He was still immersed in thought when they passed outside a row of offices, empty for the night. So immersed it took him a second to process past the flash of pain when his head hit the stone wall.

He thrashed up hard; his first instinct was to think he was being attacked. In all honesty, Marco was lucky he didn’t bite his tongue off. Even after realizing what was going on, feeling the cold stone all down his back, and pain in his lips, and the wet muscle flicking along his teeth, he shoved against his friend, realizing for the first time in a long time that Marco was both taller and heavier than he was. It wasn’t a huge difference, but if felt somehow magnified by the heavy press of Marco’s body pinning him to the wall.

He scrabbled uselessly at Marco’s shoulders for several seconds, letting out an undignified yelp when he felt Marco’s fingers grip his ass like a vice and noticed for the first time the raging erection grinding against his crotch. Finally, he got a solid grip on one shoulder, and pushed back as hard as he could. Marco’s lips left his with a wet sucking noise.

“ _What the hell, man?_ ” Jean tried to feed all the intensity he could into his voice without actually raising his volume. If anyone heard them, they’d probably ignore it, but if they didn’t... if someone came over to help... he didn’t want to try to explain what was going on here. Technically, Marco was assaulting him. He pushed the implications of that to the back of his mind, focusing on what he didn’t want to happen: he didn’t want Marco to get in trouble, he didn’t want to get in trouble, and he definitely didn’t want to enter the MP as a victim - or worse, not be allowed to enter at all. He didn’t know exactly how they dealt with that sort of thing, but he would not start his new career with such a weak reputation.

“What’s wrong, Jean?” Marco was smiling at him, even as he strained to close the gap between their faces; Jean felt his arms shaking and noticed somehow that Marco was much stronger than usual, as strong as Reiner during hand-to-hand - much, much stronger than the intoxicated Jean.

“Marco -” his arms collapsed, Marco fell forward and the back of Jean’s head smashed into the wall again. He shoved Marco again, gasping against his mouth when Marco grabbed both his wrists, squeezing hard enough to grind the bones together, and pinned his hands palm-out against the wall. Marco worried his lower lip between his teeth, allowing Jean to breath unobstructed. Jean had only a second to be relieved before feeling Marco’s teeth on his jaw, lips grazing his face lightly before his teeth latched onto Jean’s earlobe. Jean whimpered, embarrassingly high pitched, and felt Marco’s breath as he snorted into his ear.

“Marco. Marco. Um. You need to stop.” _That’s it, Jean. Just let him know you don’t want it, just tell him you’re not ready for this right now, he’ll let go, he’ll apologize, it’s Marco, it’ll be fine -_

Marco’s answer is felt as much as heard, and Jean shivers as the words breeze into his ear. “But why, Jean? It’s so good. It feels so good, doesn’t it?”

_No_ , Jean thinks, feeling the beginnings of panic rising in his gut, but before he can get the words out Marco bites him at the line between jaw, neck, and ear and he gasps. Marco hums lightly, sucking on the skin, and Jean struggles to pull together enough coherency through the hormones and alcohol and rising fear to tell Marco on no uncertain terms to get off him.

Breathing irregular, voice much less steady than he’d like, Jean says, “No. Marco, no, not now, not like this...”

Still humming, Marco breaks off savaging Jean’s skin to say, “Then how, Jean?”

He’s not stopping. Jean takes a moment to answer, and hisses when Marco bites him again, lower, closer to his throat. “Tell me.”

_Make him stop_. Jean can’t think, can’t figure out what to say, what he can do that will get Marco to just get off him and go to sleep and wake up tomorrow and be his Marco again.

Marco bites him again, this time directly on the throat, hard. Through his own yelp of pain he hears an edge of warning enter Marco’s voice: “Tell me, Jean. How?”

“In-inside,” Jean gasps. “Inside, with a bed, and...”

His voice trails off and his eyes widen in the dark when he realizes that the pain in his wrists is residual. Marco’s hand have left them, and are now tearing at the skirt over his uniform trousers. Even as he reaches the truth, Marco tears his lips from his throat and kisses him again, and Jean tastes blood he knows must be his own. Marco pulls away and looks him dead in the eye. “Keep talking. I want to hear your voice.”

Jean just stares, lost for words, and Marco sighs. “Oh, Jean. You’re so beautiful. I hope you know that.”

As he speaks, the skirt falls, and Marco’s shockingly steady hands slide his trousers open easily. He keeps talking as he slides them down Jean’s thighs, but Jean can’t hear what he’s saying through the pounding in his ears. Then Marco lifts off him for a moment, and Jean feels an irrational relief before he’s spun bodily around and crushed back against the wall. One side of his face is smashed against the cold stone, as well as his bare cock, of which he is painfully aware. He grits his teeth and feels fingers tugging on the corner of his mouth; Marco’s voice is in his ear again - or rather, Marco’s tone, and pitch, but Jean’s never heard Marco sound so steely as he does when he lets out a simple “Suck.”

Jean realizes, then, exactly what Marco intends, and feels himself beginning to shake. He takes Marco’s fingers into his mouth, mechanical, as his mind races. He needs to say something. There has to be something. Something. He had lost most of his ability to fight - now the only thing in reach of his fists was marble - but he could still do something. Reach above his head and grab Marco's hair to get his attention, try to pull him down, something. But he knows he won't; Marco may not be in his right mind, but he's still _Marco_ , and Jean can't bring himself to hurt him, and anything he could do from this position to stop him would also hurt him. Anything.

He barely notices the fingers leaving his limp jaw, but he definitely notices when they move down. When Marco begins to work a finger inside him. He knows his spit won’t be enough, not even close, it probably won’t even help; he thrashes against the wall and says, “Marco, slow down, we need time, we need lube -”

“Shhh,” Marco says softly, his hand slipping almost gently through Jean’s hair. “Shhh, Jean. Just relax. It’ll be okay. I’ll take good care of you.”

No. Jean’s face twists and he feels a sob bubbling up in his chest as he understands that there’s nothing he can say or do that will convince Marco not to fuck him against this wall. He wants to slam his fist against the wall and scream, but he doesn’t, he can’t, because as much as he wants it to stop, he would rather they aren’t caught than they are. With the realization comes something a lot like despair; he resolves to try to keep whatever dignity he can, since that’s all he can do, and his limbs still.

“You’re doing so well, Jean. That’s it.”

He continues to fight the sobs as Marco pushes in a second finger alongside the first, does his best to relax even as the knowledge that this will leave him ruined echos through his head. Marco’s trying to prepare him, but his inexperience is obvious as he scissors his fingers experimentally, and Jean knows in his bones that this not going to be pleasant. He catches himself huffing with laughter for a moment, at the utter irony of the situation. His best friend is the one he’d so hoped to do this with, and now he’s getting his wish. Marco’s even trying to talk him through it; he can hear gentle hushing noises coming from behind him, the fingers still brushing softly through his hair.

“Good boy. Just relax.”

Marco shoves in a third finger, and Jean can’t stop the strangled cry that leaves his throat. Marco pauses a moment, then continues slowly dragging them, in and out. Jean breathes hard, trying desperately not to scream. He thinks wildly of what he’s going to do when Marco actually starts to fuck him. He’s not sure at all that he’ll be able to stay quiet when -

“Ah!” The words sound like they’re being dragged from his chest with a hook. “Marco, god, Marco -”

In a flash, the hand that had been so gently running through his hair clamps down on his mouth and he screams into it, fists clenched. He’d expected Marco to give him at least a moment to adjust, but now that he’s actually inside, he can’t seem to stop. The pace he sets is absolutely brutal, and the force is more than Jean had ever expected. The pain fills his skull, he’s not aware of what his voice is doing, or what Marco is saying, or anything but the pain and the certainty that he must be splitting open. He knows he must be begging, he’d do anything, but somewhere in the back of his mind still aware of the hand in his mouth he knows Marco can’t hear him, and maybe wouldn’t respond it he could.

In much the same way, part of Marco may be aware that something is wrong, but he doesn’t hear that part. All he knows is that he feels good, so good, and he’s here with Jean, who must feel good too, or else he wouldn't be so loud. He slams into his friend’s body over and over, feeling his orgasm building, his thrusts becoming irregular, he buries himself as in Jean as deep as he can and lets it go. He rides it out, then collapses against Jean’s limp body. They stay like that for a moment, or several, until finally Marco pulls out and tucks himself back into his pants.

Ignoring the pain shooting through his body, Jean forces himself upright. Ignoring the stiffness, he reaches down and pulls his pants back up. Ignoring the overwhelming urge to vomit, he picks his skirt up off the ground and reattaches it about his hips, thinking wryly that at least it will hide anything threatening to show through the white fabric. He looks up and sees Marco - still smiling at him.

“Let’s go.”

Jean forces himself to walk, not to think about anything. Just walk, through the pain. He’d be back in his bunk soon, though he realizes he may want the showers first.

As he walks, he feels Marco’s arm wrap around his shoulders like a noose. “Thank you, Jean. You were so good...”

He says nothing. Walks.

Finally, after what seems like kilometers but Jean knows to be less than three hundred yards, they get back to the staging area, where the trainees lived. Showers. Barracks. Gear shed. Jean feels Marco’s eyes on him as he heads straight for the showers, and he stops. He can’t go to bed filthy, but he has a feeling Marco will follow him in and... he just doesn’t know.

Nonetheless, he has to shower. He has to. He resumes walking, trying to keep his body language and expression neutral. Marco follows him. As he opens the door, he feels Marco slide off his jacket. The panic rises again, but this time, it’s numb, not the same raw panic that had him thrashing against a wall minutes earlier. He strips himself the rest of the way, shrugging off Marco’s hands, hoping without true hope that Marco will take the hint. As expected, when he reaches forward to turn on the water he feels Marco’s arms snake around his chest again, pulling his body back, digging his cock into the cleft of Jean’s wrecked ass.

Jean felt his breath catch; unbelievably, Marco was hard again. He was breathing into Jean’s hair, oblivious to how Jean had gone tight against him, to all appearances blissfully unaware of the tension.

“Marco.”

“Hm?”

“I can’t.”

Marco was rubbing his fingers in Jean’s hair, humming softly. “Can’t what?”

Jean took a shuddering breath. In an attempt to steady his nerves, he reached out with a hand he was annoyed to see was shaking and turned on the water.

“I can’t do that again right now. Marco, it... it hurt. A lot.”

Marco hummed against him, seeming completely unconcerned as the tepid water rolled over them. “That’s okay.”

He griped Jean’s shoulders and turned him around so they were facing, still with that smile Jean was beginning to see as less comforting and more disheartening. It seemed that nothing could penetrate it, and Jean could feel himself beginning to shut down as he looked at that familiar face with the expression he’d seem a thousand times: calm and affection mingles on Marco’s warm features as he leaned in for a kiss. Jean leaned back, but Marco followed him, and he found hands placed firmly on his shouders to hold him in place.

Marco was much more gentle than he had been outside, and Jean tried to relax, but then Marco’s hands began to exert a steady pressure on his shoulders. Too tired and sore to resist, he found himself sinking down. His knees gave out, and he felt his kneecaps crack on the shower floors and found himself perfectly on level with Marco’s painfully hard, dripping cock. Marco tracked one hand up, dragging his fingertips along Jean’s jaw, once again slipping his fingers between Jean’s lips as the blond tore his gaze away to look up at Marco.

“So pretty,” he said. “You have such pretty eyes, Jean. Has anyone ever told you?”

Numb, Jean shook his head, and went back to looking straight ahead. As disturbing his current view was, somehow, Marco’s smile was worse.

Even so, it didn’t make what he was about to do any easier. He licked his lips, his mind taking in far too much detail as he struggled not to think. The veins. The clear liquid gathered at the tip. The rivulets of water splitting at the base of his dick. He licked his lips again as Marco pushed his hips forward gently, tapping against Jean’s mouth. He looked up one more time, silently begging for a reprieve. Marco just smiled.

Still trying not to think, Jean opened his lips and tentatively closed them around the tip. Marco groaned appreciatively, and Jean felt his fingers tangle in the base of his undercut, gently guiding him in and out. Jean closed his eyes and went with the motion, attempting to trace the veins with his tongue.

“Cover your teeth,” Marco says. He does, pulling his lips back over his incisors, and closes his eyes even tighter against the tears he feels trying to well in his eyes. As soon as his teeth are out of the way, Marco’s grip tightens, and his hand moves with more force. Jean makes an indignant noise, and hears Marco laugh softly above him.

“It’s okay. I’m sure you’ll get better. Just relax,” he says gently, his voice standing in contrast to his increasingly violent motions. The first time the head hits the back of his throat, Jean gags, but Marco doesn’t appear to notice; he doesn’t make his thrusts any shallower or softer, and Jean tries his best to swallow around the thing. He’s having trouble breathing now, on top of fighting the urge to vomit with every thrust, but again, Marco is mindless of his discomfort, and all Jean can do is hang on for his life.

Marco lasts much longer than Jean would have thought possible when every second seemed to last an age. Marco’s motions had become ferocious; every thrust brought Jean’s nose against his body and the head against the back of his throat. Tears were being beaten from his throat, mixing with the water from the shower that flowed down his face, and Marco was getting louder, more vocal. These are public showers, Jean found himself thinking suddenly. Someone could come in at any moment... and once again, all he could do was wait for it to be over and hope no one came.

He choked again, badly, and even coughed. Far from being put off, Marco seemed to enjoy the friction, and brought Jean in close one last time.

“Swallow for me? Come on, Jean, you can do this.”

Eyes still closed, Jean struggled, against his every instinct, to swallow the bitter fluid; what little escaped was hidden by the water. Jean let the now limp member fall from his lips as Marco tilted his head back to look him in the eye.

Marco’s smile would be burned into his brain forever. He was sure. He felt sick to his stomach as Marco lifted him to his feet, numb as he washed him, chattering away about how much fun graduation was and how glad he was that he and Jean had finally understood each other.

Even in his insensible condition, Jean did not allow Marco to dress him. He pulled on his underwear, trousers, boots and shirt without drying off, slung his jacked, skirt and socks over his arm, and set out for the barracks, Marco bounding after him, still pulling on his boots. All Jean wanted to do now was to get back to his bed, and sleep, and get this day firmly in the past, where it belonged.

He eased the door open, though he when he heard the chorus of snores meeting him he wondered dully why he bothered. He clanked to his bunk, stripped off his boots and outer clothes, and rolled himself into his blanket. He tried not to notice how his body shook still, or the weakness in his body, or the pain he was sure would be debilitating in the morning. Sleep. That was what mattered now. Maybe he would even wake and find that this had never happened.

Then he felt the weight on the other side of his bed, and his heart didn’t so much sink as disappear. He had somehow forgotten that Marco slept in the bunk adjoined to his, and that no one would see anything strange if they woke up wrapped around each other. People got clingy in their sleep, after all. He felt the weight change from someone sitting on his bunk to someone lying beside him, and didn’t make a sound. He couldn’t. He couldn’t make a sound when the body wormed its way under his blankets, when it ripped away his cocoon and turned him once more onto his stomach and placed its hands about his hips. He felt it rubbing against him again, impossibly hard already, felt the blunt squares of its nails as they tugged his underwear over his hips. He tried to stay calm - breathe, Jean, just breathe, it’ll be okay, it’ll end soon - but then he felt the fingers, nominally slicked by saliva once again, press against his ruined passage, and couldn’t stop himself from begging.

“Please,” he said softly, half into the pillow. “Please, not again, it hurts so much, it - ah!” Marco had added a second finger, going faster than he had the first time, taking full advantage of the stretch left over from the walkway.

“Calm down, Jean,” Marco said kindly as he pressed a third finger in, much too quickly, leaving Jean seeing stars. “It’ll be fine. Just relax, you know? Just like you did before.” His fingers withdrew, and Jean frantically bit the pillow in a desperate attempt to muffle the noise he knew he would make when Marco - and then he was in, sliding slowly for now, but building speed and force. Jean fisted the sheets, feeling the soreness in his wrists as a footnote to the overwhelming pain being inflicted on him from behind. Marco moaned openly, and Jean buried his face in the pillow.

“You’re so good, Jean.”

He felt the tears threatening again, full on sobbing tears, not the simple physical response of the showers but an expression of pure despair. And this time, he didn’t have the energy to stop them.

 

The next morning, Jean wakes with Marco wrapped around him like an octopus. He doesn’t forget the night before for a second. Everything hurts, the back of his head, his face, throat, neck, wrists, everything from the waist down. He finds himself thanking whatever god there is that he does not have training today.

He doesn’t open his eyes for a while, doesn’t move until the crawling sensation in his skin becomes too much. He wants a shower, more badly than he can clearly remember having wanted a shower in three years of mud and sweat and blood, and so he stiffly rolls and drops to the floor beside his bed (ignoring a shooting pain in his knees) and reaches underneath. The first thing he touches is cloth, so he pulls it out, then shoves it back as violently as he is able when he sees white denim stained red. He pulls out a change of civies he rarely wears - the overlong, flared sleeves and high collar had gone out of fashion shortly before he got them, which was why he could afford them at all -and drags them on before shuffling slowly for the door. If anyone sees him limping, dragging his feet, trying not to bend, they can put it down to a hangover.

“Oi, Kirchstein! Nice lovebites! Was she part leech?”

Jean ignores Eren, not even sparing his classmate a thought as he walked directly to the showers.

“Hey horseface, I’m talking to you!”

No response. Jean drops his clothes the instant he steps inside the showers, somewhat relieved there’s no one inside at the moment. He’s not sure what exactly he looks like, but he’s sure something would invite comment, and he’s having trouble facing talking to anyone right now.

As he starts the water, he hears the door slam open behind him and does not turn around. “Listen up, you ass -”

The voice cuts off; the door creaks shut. He’s not sure if Eren has stayed or gone, and cannot bring himself to care. He cleans himself, not even glancing at the floor or drains, and turns to see Eren staring at him, mouth agape. It slams shut and he meets Jean’s eyes with his usual challenging expression. Jean isn't sure what his back looks like, but judging from Eren's speechlessness, he must be a sight. Maybe he'd normally say something debilitatingly clever, but now, he can't seem to care about what Eren - or anyone else - is thinking.  Jean says nothing, stepping around Eren to reach his clothes. Eren continues to stare, and Jean begins to feel the start of annoyance. He gives Eren a dirty look as he dresses, which Eren returns in kind before finally breaking the silence. “I was going to ask if you’re okay, but if you have the energy to look like that, I guess you’re fine.”

Jean snorts. “Yeah, that’s right, Jaeger. I’m fine. Now fuck off and leave me alone.”

He spins on his heel as fluidly as he can and tries hard not to limp when he exits the showers. He’s not sure if he pulled it off, but he does his best as he walks to the mess. Had he turned, he might have seen Eren standing in the doorway, watching him go.

Marco wakes up slowly. He’s not sure why, but he feels really good this morning. He’s doubly not sure because he can’t seem to recall anything from the night before but some MPs with a cart and Annie smiling - nothing that could leave him feeling so chipper despite the nausea, headache, and weakness typical of a bad hangover. Still, he swings upright with a smile on his face and prepares for breakfast. Maybe he’ll see Jean there, try to piece together just what had gone on last night.

On his walk to the mess, manages to track down a few more memories. He laughed at some poor-taste joke of Ymir’s, he swears he saw Sasha and Connie kissing. And then he remembers what must have made him so happy: short blonde hair twisted about his fingers, a long, startled face, gorgeous amber eyes, the feeling of lips under his own. It’s little more than a tangle of impressions, but he begins to hope as he receives his next-to-last breakfast in the trainee barracks: he may have kissed Jean Kirchstein. Who happens to be sitting alone, looking glumly at his meal, spotted the moment Marco turned to look for him.

“Hey, Jean.” He slides in on the bench next to his friend, a little clumsy with the hangover, but endearingly so.

Jean looks up as though startled to see him. “Hey,” he says quickly before returning to staring at his food.

He seems a little put off, but Marco puts it down to the hangover Jean must also be experiencing. He tries again to spark up a conversation. “Wild night yesterday, eh? I can barely remember most of it.”

Jean looks at him sideways. “Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, I remember going outside with you, and meeting those MPs, and then...” he trails off, flipping a hand through the air, “Nothing. Or at least nothing much.”

Jean doesn’t answer right away. Or for a long while. Finally, Marco presses on. “Do you remember anything? You were pretty drunk too I guess, but I thought you might know what happened.”

Jean addresses his eggs. “Nothing. Nothing happened. You were really drunk, so I walked you back to our bunks, and we slept it off.”

Disappointment rises in Marco. “Nothing? Huh. I could have sworn there was something important...”

Jean stood and grabbed his laden tray. “Nope. Not unless consider having to stop to piss in some bushed that happen to contain a very horny Ymir and Krista important,” he said, speaking quickly, not meeting Marco's eyes. He paused.

Marco took the opportunity to ask, “Are you okay? You’re acting weirdly antisocial this morning.”

Jean shook his head. “Just the hangover. I’ll be fine. I’m just going to go sleep some more, now that I’ve got some food in me.”

Marco gave him an encouraging smile and a nod and watched as he turned on his heels and stalked out of the mess hall, his stride a little erratic. He sat back on the bench and hummed quietly to himself, thinking he may have to return to the bunks himself once he’d finished his breakfast. You know, for some sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> As I said, not how I imagined making my debut. Constructive criticism/comments/kudos always welcome.  
> If anyone I know finds this, I will probably just lay down and die, but I take advantage of all the great authors around here for my own purposes, so... I suppose I'll go ahead and give something back.


End file.
